Category: General
DEVO in concert
March 18, 2009
The Palladium Ballroom, Dallas, Texas
Are we not men?, or derivatives thereof, is a rallying cry heard in works of literature through the years, usually used to fire up the troops before a big battle or to inspire courage in the faint of heart. It's typically answered in the affirmative, to denote machismo or to show allegiance to some sort of ideal. However, in Dallas on March 18th, the question was asked, and an entirely different answer came forth: We are DEVO!
They were the very symbols of 80's pop absurdity to most; a goofy sideshow filled with S&M visuals, hazmat suits, and flowerpot hats. To a select few (thousand?), though, they represented something much more. They were the quintessential geeks, the nerd aesthetic made flesh. DEVO was the band all the Chess Club guys (and, secretly, some of the jocks) wanted to be in high school. They had cooler toys than you, made cooler noise than you, and always got the chicks, even with those red things on their heads. They were the Original Spuds.
It was this latter view of the band that made me trek to Dallas a day or so earlier than I had originally planned. I was headed to my friend Bernie's regardless to do a shakedown of the RV we're taking to Burning Man this year, and was having pangs of--nostalgia, maybe? So I happened to wander over to clubdevo.com to order an Energy Dome (it's NOT just a hat, dammit). And there it was: the Tour Dates link. I figured they hadn't worked on anything for a while, but I clicked the link anyway, if for no other reason than my weird sense of completeness. And, of course, they were playing in the same city I happened to be going to.
On a night that I was off work anyway.
Imagine that.
So my friend Ken and I hastily made plans and headed out. With no major RV issues (well, except for when the driver's-side rearview mirror fell off and bounced down the highway), we were able to make it to the show in record time.
I have to admit, even being a huge DEVO fan, I felt a bit silly wearing my Dome and hopping out of the RV to greet Bernie when we arrived. (I felt even siller later on when I was using a walkup ATM and completely forgot I was wearing it, much to the amusement of some people in the parking lot. I waved.) But of course, any self-consciousness vanished completely when we got the the venue, as there were streaming throngs of people wearing not just the headgear, but full DEVO suit, head-to-toe. Not just a few, but dozens. Maybe hundreds.
I was finally among my people. And it felt good.
We got there in time to catch the opening band's set: a more traditional-sounding rock outfit called Onus (I may have the name wrong; please let me know and I'll fix it). The sea of bobbing domes seemed to enjoy the music as much as anyone can enjoy any opening act for any of their musical icons; the crowd was appreciative and excited, but not crazy screaming wild. Not yet, at least.
The openers finished their set, and the crowd and I began our wait. The guys started about 20 minutes late, which didn't bother me at all, as I had good company to stand around with. Besides, hell, I'd waited to see these guys for 25 years, so 25 minutes is nothing. (Man, that time frame is scary when I type it out like that.) I had a beer and we talked about life. Sometimes that's just what you do.
Then, suddenly, no more talking. The house lights dropped like the Dow. The music began, sort of a dreamlike synth concoction, with little snippets of songs here and there. Then, the giant screen. Easily 20 feet high and 30 wide, it began showing what would happen if you took DEVO's career and stuck it in a blender: album covers, Mtv microclips, the odd abstract graphic, spanning 30 years or so, setting the mood and drizzling us with a bit of foreshadowing. The footage, while consisting of a lot of old stuff, was a very powerful presentation; tiny glimpses of always-misunderstood genius that seemed to scream out, with power and truth, that this was no damn nostalgia band. This was the Real Deal, and the guys entering the stage were going to soak us in it for the next couple hours.
The stage was dark, but we could all see the shadowy figures walking up to the mics: it was THEM. On stage, right in front of us. And they were going to play. They got right to it, opening with 3 new (!) songs from... a forthcoming album? WTF? I gasped when I realized I was hearing NEW music. And it sounded just as good--if not better--than the old catalog. The opener was "Don't Shoot, I'm a Man," a title that evidently came from a phrase on the back of hunters' safety vests. For me, this track was easily the best of the three. The title-chorus, while looking kind of unweildy on paper, was as catchy and danceable as any of their old stuff, and had the trademark "think-for-yourself-versus-soul-crushing-conformity" social commentary that flew completely over my head in junior high.
This was followed up with "What We Do" and "Fresh," both very well-done pieces of musical craftsmanship, which were performed with the energy of college kids, the band running from mic to mic, jumping around, dancing, antagonizing the audience, you name it. (It's worth mentioning here that while I liked "Don't Shoot" the best, Ken's pick was "What We Do" and Bernie had good things to say about "Fresh," which tells me they're doing this right.)
After the new stuff, a few brief words to the audience. And then it began... song after song after song of the choicest nuggets from their catalog. This was no mere buffet; this was an all-out orgy of the goodness that is DEVO, sprayed out from the stage in great heaping globs big enough for Spud and Pink alike to fall down and wallow in. "Mongoloid," "Jocko Homo," "Girl U Want." All were represented and thoroughly exercised.
The excitement level was off the scale. This was not a crowd of browsers or casual fans: they dearly craved this, like manna from an errant God. And by God, they knew their DEVO. See, I had thought (due to limited radio success) that I was the only person on the planet that liked "Smart Patrol/Mr. DNA." I have to say that this is my favorite track (I used to joke, "It's two songs in one! For better value!"). The changes of tempo, the bizarrely enigmatic lyrics, and the insane speed of the latter half always added up to a sort of perfect rock-tune recipe for me. And now, in 2009, when they played the little opening synthesizer buzz, my personal favorite track that I always thought nobody else really cared about was greeted with so many screams and cheers that I thought the roof was going to collapse. I think I jumped up and down through the entire song. It's long and it made my ankles hurt, my ears bleed and my heart explode. Seriously, it was one of those moments that are stunning enough to make you take a breath and appreciate the moment around you. No, really, it was that good.
And then, more, more, more of the old songs. Hell, it may have been all of them. I was going to try to keep track, make notes or something. I knew I'd be blogging it later. But I was already having so much fun by then I just gave up and basked in the moment. Besides, you can get set lists from all kinds of fan sites. I'm trying to capture the flavor, man. You know, trying to paint pictures of the odd little moments like Mark picking up pom-poms during "Mongoloid" and doing a choreographed cheer routine (frankly, there's not a lot else for him to do during that one), and the band doing the same steps we all know and love for "Uncontollable Urge," and still being able to pull it off perfectly after all this time.
I thought the evening was fantastic and just couldn't get any better. They had been playing for a while now and the end of the show was coming up. They had done so much material, I honestly couldn't think of any other songs, or how to end the set. Surely, there's some kind of surprise up their sleeves, I thought. But what we finally got went above and beyond anything I could have thought of: they brought out Booji Boy, in the flesh (or at least the latex)... and he spoke.
Booji Boy is kind of hard to describe. He's sort of a weird man-child, played by Mark (last name Mothersbaugh, known in recent years for writing music for commercials and TV shows like "Rugrats") in a rubber mask and what looked tonight like some sort of ministerial robes, with "Booji Boy" written in glitter on the back. The character (to my knowledge) first appeared in the band's film Now It Can Be Told: the Truth about Devolution, from way back in the late seventies. He has a high-pitched, childlike voice, which sounds oddly sweet and innocent (it was Mark through a pitch-shifter or something). "We haven't been to Dallas in a long, long time, and we were wondering what you all looked like!" Booji said, to screams and cheers. And if there was a more perfect end to the evening, I wouldn't have been able to come up with one: Booji began to sing "Beautiful World."
The effect of the visual of Booji and the sweet, sad singing voice went together like hookers and blow. I now can't imagine the song being sung any other way. The only problem (well, not really a problem per se) was the lyric "It's a beautiful world for you/but not for me!" The delivery here made me want to go on stage, tell the poor guy that the world can be beautiful for him too, then give him a big hug and some cookies or a college education or something.
Towards the end of the song, Booji opened his robes from the front, revealing what looked like a ridiculously-aggrandized codpiece, or perhaps a badly-neglected goiter. He began fiddling with this massively-oversized crotch, so much so that I really didn't know what was going to happen in the next minute or so, nor how comfortable I would be with said event. But then, fiddling finally done, his hands emerged with fistfuls of those little smiley-face bouncy balls, the kind you get for a quarter from the supermarket machines. And he began throwing them into the audience, bouncing them off the stage into a forest of outstretched hands. Hundreds, maybe thousands of those tiny balls, bouncing everywhere, glittering in the stage lights. A little gift from band to audience, as if they hadn't given enough already. It was the perfect closing, such a happy note to end the show with. I really hate to use the word, because it's tired and cliche, but I don't care because it's what I was feeling, and I can't lie to the readers of this blog (all four of you): it was Magic.
And then it was over. They didn't do an encore; they didn't need to. Truth be told, I have no idea how they would have followed that. But then, I guess that's as good a summary of DEVO as any: they were always so far ahead of their time that there were moments they were even ahead of themselves.
Almost finally, a big thank-you to the fellow Spud-ette who handed me one of the Booji balls; I was standing directly in front of a speaker and wasn't able to snag one during the show. Many, many thanks, and Total Slack to you. I shall keep it always, or until I lose it somewhere. I believe the band would appreciate that sentiment. Or not.
Finally finally, a very quick note for those of you who were expecting an unbiased review: I'm a FAN. If you want objectivity, read frickin' Rolling Stone. And get off my lawn too. Hippies.
DEVO in concert
March 18, 2009
The Palladium Ballroom, Dallas, Texas
Are we not men?, or derivatives thereof, is a rallying cry heard in works of literature through the years, usually used to fire up the troops before a big battle or to inspire courage in the faint of heart. It's typically answered in the affirmative, to denote machismo or to show allegiance to some sort of ideal. However, in Dallas on March 18th, the question was asked, and an entirely different answer came forth: We are DEVO!
They were the very symbols of 80's pop absurdity to most; a goofy sideshow filled with S&M visuals, hazmat suits, and flowerpot hats. To a select few (thousand?), though, they represented something much more. They were the quintessential geeks, the nerd aesthetic made flesh. DEVO was the band all the Chess Club guys (and, secretly, some of the jocks) wanted to be in high school. They had cooler toys than you, made cooler noise than you, and always got the chicks, even with those red things on their heads. They were the Original Spuds.
It was this latter view of the band that made me trek to Dallas a day or so earlier than I had originally planned. I was headed to my friend Bernie's regardless to do a shakedown of the RV we're taking to Burning Man this year, and was having pangs of--nostalgia, maybe? So I happened to wander over to clubdevo.com to order an Energy Dome (it's NOT just a hat, dammit). And there it was: the Tour Dates link. I figured they hadn't worked on anything for a while, but I clicked the link anyway, if for no other reason than my weird sense of completeness. And, of course, they were playing in the same city I happened to be going to.
On a night that I was off work anyway.
Imagine that.
So my friend Ken and I hastily made plans and headed out. With no major RV issues (well, except for when the driver's-side rearview mirror fell off and bounced down the highway), we were able to make it to the show in record time.
I have to admit, even being a huge DEVO fan, I felt a bit silly wearing my Dome and hopping out of the RV to greet Bernie when we arrived. (I felt even siller later on when I was using a walkup ATM and completely forgot I was wearing it, much to the amusement of some people in the parking lot. I waved.) But of course, any self-consciousness vanished completely when we got the the venue, as there were streaming throngs of people wearing not just the headgear, but full DEVO suit, head-to-toe. Not just a few, but dozens. Maybe hundreds.
I was finally among my people. And it felt good.
We got there in time to catch the opening band's set: a more traditional-sounding rock outfit called Onus (I may have the name wrong; please let me know and I'll fix it). The sea of bobbing domes seemed to enjoy the music as much as anyone can enjoy any opening act for any of their musical icons; the crowd was appreciative and excited, but not crazy screaming wild. Not yet, at least.
The openers finished their set, and the crowd and I began our wait. The guys started about 20 minutes late, which didn't bother me at all, as I had good company to stand around with. Besides, hell, I'd waited to see these guys for 25 years, so 25 minutes is nothing. (Man, that time frame is scary when I type it out like that.) I had a beer and we talked about life. Sometimes that's just what you do.
Then, suddenly, no more talking. The house lights dropped like the Dow. The music began, sort of a dreamlike synth concoction, with little snippets of songs here and there. Then, the giant screen. Easily 20 feet high and 30 wide, it began showing what would happen if you took DEVO's career and stuck it in a blender: album covers, Mtv microclips, the odd abstract graphic, spanning 30 years or so, setting the mood and drizzling us with a bit of foreshadowing. The footage, while consisting of a lot of old stuff, was a very powerful presentation; tiny glimpses of always-misunderstood genius that seemed to scream out, with power and truth, that this was no damn nostalgia band. This was the Real Deal, and the guys entering the stage were going to soak us in it for the next couple hours.
The stage was dark, but we could all see the shadowy figures walking up to the mics: it was THEM. On stage, right in front of us. And they were going to play. They got right to it, opening with 3 new (!) songs from... a forthcoming album? WTF? I gasped when I realized I was hearing NEW music. And it sounded just as good--if not better--than the old catalog. The opener was "Don't Shoot, I'm a Man," a title that evidently came from a phrase on the back of hunters' safety vests. For me, this track was easily the best of the three. The title-chorus, while looking kind of unweildy on paper, was as catchy and danceable as any of their old stuff, and had the trademark "think-for-yourself-versus-soul-crushing-conformity" social commentary that flew completely over my head in junior high.
This was followed up with "What We Do" and "Fresh," both very well-done pieces of musical craftsmanship, which were performed with the energy of college kids, the band running from mic to mic, jumping around, dancing, antagonizing the audience, you name it. (It's worth mentioning here that while I liked "Don't Shoot" the best, Ken's pick was "What We Do" and Bernie had good things to say about "Fresh," which tells me they're doing this right.)
After the new stuff, a few brief words to the audience. And then it began... song after song after song of the choicest nuggets from their catalog. This was no mere buffet; this was an all-out orgy of the goodness that is DEVO, sprayed out from the stage in great heaping globs big enough for Spud and Pink alike to fall down and wallow in. "Mongoloid," "Jocko Homo," "Girl U Want." All were represented and thoroughly exercised.
The excitement level was off the scale. This was not a crowd of browsers or casual fans: they dearly craved this, like manna from an errant God. And by God, they knew their DEVO. See, I had thought (due to limited radio success) that I was the only person on the planet that liked "Smart Patrol/Mr. DNA." I have to say that this is my favorite track (I used to joke, "It's two songs in one! For better value!"). The changes of tempo, the bizarrely enigmatic lyrics, and the insane speed of the latter half always added up to a sort of perfect rock-tune recipe for me. And now, in 2009, when they played the little opening synthesizer buzz, my personal favorite track that I always thought nobody else really cared about was greeted with so many screams and cheers that I thought the roof was going to collapse. I think I jumped up and down through the entire song. It's long and it made my ankles hurt, my ears bleed and my heart explode. Seriously, it was one of those moments that are stunning enough to make you take a breath and appreciate the moment around you. No, really, it was that good.
And then, more, more, more of the old songs. Hell, it may have been all of them. I was going to try to keep track, make notes or something. I knew I'd be blogging it later. But I was already having so much fun by then I just gave up and basked in the moment. Besides, you can get set lists from all kinds of fan sites. I'm trying to capture the flavor, man. You know, trying to paint pictures of the odd little moments like Mark picking up pom-poms during "Mongoloid" and doing a choreographed cheer routine (frankly, there's not a lot else for him to do during that one), and the band doing the same steps we all know and love for "Uncontollable Urge," and still being able to pull it off perfectly after all this time.
I thought the evening was fantastic and just couldn't get any better. They had been playing for a while now and the end of the show was coming up. They had done so much material, I honestly couldn't think of any other songs, or how to end the set. Surely, there's some kind of surprise up their sleeves, I thought. But what we finally got went above and beyond anything I could have thought of: they brought out Booji Boy, in the flesh (or at least the latex)... and he spoke.
Booji Boy is kind of hard to describe. He's sort of a weird man-child, played by Mark (last name Mothersbaugh, known in recent years for writing music for commercials and TV shows like "Rugrats") in a rubber mask and what looked tonight like some sort of ministerial robes, with "Booji Boy" written in glitter on the back. The character (to my knowledge) first appeared in the band's film Now It Can Be Told: the Truth about Devolution, from way back in the late seventies. He has a high-pitched, childlike voice, which sounds oddly sweet and innocent (it was Mark through a pitch-shifter or something). "We haven't been to Dallas in a long, long time, and we were wondering what you all looked like!" Booji said, to screams and cheers. And if there was a more perfect end to the evening, I wouldn't have been able to come up with one: Booji began to sing "Beautiful World."
The effect of the visual of Booji and the sweet, sad singing voice went together like hookers and blow. I now can't imagine the song being sung any other way. The only problem (well, not really a problem per se) was the lyric "It's a beautiful world for you/but not for me!" The delivery here made me want to go on stage, tell the poor guy that the world can be beautiful for him too, then give him a big hug and some cookies or a college education or something.
Towards the end of the song, Booji opened his robes from the front, revealing what looked like a ridiculously-aggrandized codpiece, or perhaps a badly-neglected goiter. He began fiddling with this massively-oversized crotch, so much so that I really didn't know what was going to happen in the next minute or so, nor how comfortable I would be with said event. But then, fiddling finally done, his hands emerged with fistfuls of those little smiley-face bouncy balls, the kind you get for a quarter from the supermarket machines. And he began throwing them into the audience, bouncing them off the stage into a forest of outstretched hands. Hundreds, maybe thousands of those tiny balls, bouncing everywhere, glittering in the stage lights. A little gift from band to audience, as if they hadn't given enough already. It was the perfect closing, such a happy note to end the show with. I really hate to use the word, because it's tired and cliche, but I don't care because it's what I was feeling, and I can't lie to the readers of this blog (all four of you): it was Magic.
And then it was over. They didn't do an encore; they didn't need to. Truth be told, I have no idea how they would have followed that. But then, I guess that's as good a summary of DEVO as any: they were always so far ahead of their time that there were moments they were even ahead of themselves.
Almost finally, a big thank-you to the fellow Spud-ette who handed me one of the Booji balls; I was standing directly in front of a speaker and wasn't able to snag one during the show. Many, many thanks, and Total Slack to you. I shall keep it always, or until I lose it somewhere. I believe the band would appreciate that sentiment. Or not.
Finally finally, a very quick note for those of you who were expecting an unbiased review: I'm a FAN. If you want objectivity, read frickin' Rolling Stone. And get off my lawn too. Hippies.
